Peach Blossom Pavilion (34 page)

I didn't have to worry about him coming back because two days later his body was found in a back alley of the Temple of Supreme Happiness, a competing establishment.

The rumor went out that Zhang Zhong was an ex-tong member from Nanking. When the tong head had suddenly died, he took the dead boss's money and escaped to Shanghai, with the intention of joining another tong here. It was to arouse attention that he planned that whole incident at Sweet Laurel Tea House. Then he tried to melt the ice of the most prestigious courtesan-me-to further catapult him to fame. But it was also his "fame" which caused his downfall. News spread back to the Nanking tong members and they passed the word to their Shanghai brothers to get rid of Zhang.

And that ended the whole tragic farce.

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American Handsome

though I had ended up ahead in my adventure with Zhang Zhong, I felt myself sinking into depression. In a few months I would turn twenty-one and would have lived in this fragranced hell for eight years. I'd served all sorts of customers-young and old, rich and poor, powerful and powerless. But not a single one had made my heart pound, my face flush, my palms sweat. Was there anyone in the world for me? If so, where was he hiding? In the seventh evening of the seventh month a thousand years past or a thousand years hence?

Every night after I had served my last customer, I'd pray: Guan Yin, Merciful Observer of Cries, if you hear me, please guide him from the edge of the world to prostrate himself before my pomegranate dress!

One evening, after the oppressive summer heat had given way to the cool of autumn, Fang Rong dashed into my room, face glowing like a cluster of fireflies. "Ah, Xiang Xiang, your luck's up tonight ! "

"How? "

"How? Don't pretend innocence. Of course because someone has asked for you!"

"Many people ask for me every night, so what's the big deal?"

Mama shot me an affectionately chiding look. "Ah, do you really think I'm so old now that I have memory loss and forget that you're the most desired mingjz? But what big talk, Xiang Xiang! "

She spoke again, her entire face was seized by a smile. "Waiting downstairs now is a very tall and handsome young man-"

"Mama, you also told me that Zhang Zhong was `nice looking,' so-

"Aii-ya, Xiang Xiang, then I was just trying to be polite."

"How do I know you're not trying to be polite again?"

Mama's features tensed up. "Xiang Xiang, trust me. Even though my old eyes are blurry, I can tell from this man's Western suit, silk tie, and shirt, as well as his gold watch, that he's very rich and has elegant taste. I bet he's a dandy who's been sent by his rich father to study abroad, probably in America. So I hope his fat wallet is well stuffed with American dollars!"

She stole a licentious glance at her own reflection in the mirror and spoke again, her voice as shrill as Plum Blossom's. "I'd also like to go to the Wu Mountain with this American handsome if he doesn't mind my paying him, ha! ha! ha!" She reached to pinch my cheek. "You lucky little witch." Now even the third eye between her brows looked envious. "Serve him well and then tell me how you liked it, all right? Now put on your best dress and makeup, quick! "

"But I'm already dressed and made-up."

"Then my advice now is that you put on more makeup and less dress."

The man was waiting in the welcoming-guests room, his back toward me as he appreciated a beauty portrait. Hearing my footsteps, he turned, caught my eyes, and smiled. My heart fluttered like a bird held in tight hands. He was indeed young, handsome, and rich! Mama had told the truth-to my surprise.

His hair, ink black, was pomaded back to reveal a slim, pale face with a high-bridged nose and big, haunting eyes. His lips sensuously balanced an ivory holder with a cigarette. The red spark at the cigarette tip hovered playfully-like a petal dancing in the au tumnal air. A white suit, highlighted by a red tie and a matching kerchief, covered his almost delicate figure.

The young man extinguished his cigarette and, after sliding the holder into his pocket, approached me slowly. In a gentle voice, he invited me to sit down beside him on the sofa.

I looked up and asked, "Sir, would you like tea or wine?"

He held my glance for several moments. "Tea, please, Miss Precious Orchid."

I lifted the pot, then, arranging my fingers to resemble an orchid in bloom, poured first him, and then myself, a full cup. Smiling, I raised my cup. "Sir, to your health." Since I thought this man must have everything he wanted in life, what else could he possibly wish for besides perpetual health?

He returned a smile and a penetrating gaze. "To your beauty, Miss Precious Orchid."

I couldn't believe that I blushed.

There was a long silence while we drank our tea as if engaged in sipping meditation.

"Miss Precious Orchid," he quietly put down his cup, "please stop addressing me as sir. My name is Teng Xiong."

"Yes, Mr. Teng." I blushed more.

Another silence. Then he spoke again. To my delight, instead of coarse talk about business or boasts about monetary gains, we discussed our favorite operas and opera singers-their voices, facial expressions, hand gestures, bodily movements. Then we went on to talk about painting and calligraphy: the interplay of empty and full, the power of line, the meandering quality. He seemed to feel great respect for my knowledge of the arts. When I spoke, he would listen intently, nodding or emitting a "yes" from time to time.

I felt an instant fancy for this man; he was the first customer who'd more than pretended interest in my ideas. While talking, I cast my eyes all over Teng Xiong. His hands were fine-boned; his fingers long, tapered, and so sensitive that they almost looked like a woman's. Like an opera performer, he gestured a lot, as if his speech alone were not enough to convince. I found myself wondering: How would these hands express themselves in exploring the peaks, valleys, and crevices of my body? My heart began to beat like a battle drum and my face burn like a hot pot.

But even when our conversation had gone on for more than an hour, I still didn't see any intention in him to balance his yang with my yin. For my other customers, even scholars, the pre-Wu Mountain conversation was merely a "civilized" act leading to the stirring of the beastly qi. But it seemed that this young and handsome Mr. Teng was interested only in talking. Of course, I was flattered that he respected me as an artist, but what about my face, my body, and my art of pleasing, didn't they stoke any fire in him? Determined to tempt him, I invited him to go to my own chambermaybe he'd feel more comfortable in a private environment.

After he appreciated the decorations in my room, he pointed to my pipa on the wall. "Miss Precious Orchid, I have heard of your fame on the pipa. Will I have the pleasure of hearing it tonight?"

I took down the instrument and began to tune it. When finished, I looked up and aimed him a flirtatious smile. "Mr. Teng, which piece do you want to hear?"

"What about the `Thriving Spring and White Snow'?"

Determined to charm and conquer, I conjured up all the musical cells in my body and poured them into my playing. When interpreting the lyrical passages, my eyes would fix dreamily on his hands, while my mind would anticipate how they'd stir and satisfy my body's desires. When I reached an animated passage, my glances would caper like fireflies while my hair would quiver like dark waves pulled by a full moon.

After I finished, he smiled appreciatively, but only asked me to play more.

When I ended my third piece, he invited me to sit on the bed. Finally. I sighed inside. After all the pipa foreplay, was he now ready to thrust his jade stalk into my golden gate? But, to my consternation, he went right back to talking about the arts. This time it was I who became restless, anxious to lose my soul. Several times I hinted that he had to pay by the hour, but he seemed oblivious.

Three hours later, when he finally took leave, nothing had happened except talking and playing the pipa!

"Miss Precious Orchid," he was now standing by the door, his features looked achingly desirable under the warm, yellowish light, "it's been my wish to meet you for a long time. I'm so happy that today I finally had the chance. It's such a great pleasure and honor. I'll come again. Now good night." After that, he was gone, leaving an emptiness knocking inside my chest like a deserted bell.

Early next morning, Fang Rong plunged into my room. She sat down across from me, then searched my face as if I'd suddenly transformed into a princess. "Hey, Little Beauty, tell me everything about last night."

I took a sip of my bitter tea. "Mama, it's indescribable."

She wet her lips, threw me a meaningful stare, and spat, "Yor.!"

I remained silent, meditatively taking another sip.

She asked again, this time gently, "Really, tell me; how was he? What did he do to you?"

"I told you it's indescribable."

"But try, just try." A long pause. Now Mama looked impatient. "Xiang Xiang, please stop torturing me like this. I ask you; what did he do?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean by nothing?"

I put down my cup. "That's what I mean, nothing."

"You mean he didn't put his jade stalk into your golden gate?"

"Of course not. He didn't kiss my lips, nor even touch my hands."

Mama widened her eyes. "But he paid almost thirty silver coins for you!" She tilted her fat head, seemingly lost in thought, then suddenly, "Oh, then his golden gun drooped! But that only means his jade stalk cannot thrust toward heaven, it doesn't mean he shouldn't use his other stalk nor demand other things from you to appease his lusty fire." She paused, now seemingly lost in deeper thought. Then all of a sudden she yapped, startling me, "Oh my heaven, he must be a spy! "

"Mama, what are you talking about? What would a spy do in a turquoise pavilion?"

"I don't know, maybe he's sent here from Temple of Supreme Happiness or Sleeping Flower Pavilion to look into our business."

Since Mama's conjecture seemed ridiculous to me, I kept my mouth shut to leave her to her own nonsense.

Finally she said, "But anyway he told me he'll definitely come again. It's fine with me if he doesn't stir your clouds-so long as he pays another thirty silver coins. Ha! Ha! Ha! That's even betteryou can save your energy to serve more customers."

A week later, as promised, Mr. Teng came back. This time he wore a black suit, black shirt, and pink tie, conjuring in my mind the image of a lotus. Once when Mr. Wu, my painting teacher, was demonstrating how to paint lotuses, he'd said, "This beautiful flower grows out of filth. We say, `growing out of mud but not stained.' Like people who live amidst evil but preserve their purity."

Of course I knew Mr. Wu had said this to remind me that although I lived in a prostitution house, I could retain my integrity as a decent human being.

Was Mr. Teng's outfit a reminder of the same message?

This time I took him directly up to my room. We had tea and snacks and chatted. Like last time, our conversation revolved mainly around the arts. He seemed infinitely curious about such details as how long it took me to paint a landscape, a bird and flower painting, a beauty portrait. What kind of calligraphy did I like: seal script, walking style, or the drunken cursive grass style?